


Heartless

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Erestor is the silent lover, always masked, dark, yet intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartless

Glorfindel knows what to expect and yet is always surprised.

Erestor is the one who dictates these visits, decides when he will appear, always in Glorfindel’s bedroom late at night, never when the moon is full, and he won’t permit light. He’s the one to do the undressing – of himself and of Glorfindel. Erestor sets the pace, makes the decisions, and never says a word.

If not for the ache in his muscles, the stains on his sheets, Glorfindel would hardly know it was real, for all the substance that Erestor is made of. And he doesn’t challenge it, doesn’t put an end to it, or push for more – or less. It is what it is.

= = = = =

Glorfindel first knew Erestor as a scholar and counselor in Elrond’s court. He was absent even when present, as though made of less dense stuff than flesh. One’s gaze never caught long on Erestor, seeming to slip over him. Glorfindel had paid him little attention, and Erestor had returned the favor.

Glorfindel had no reason to look any further until Erestor was elevated to the status of Chief Counselor and Glorfindel took it upon himself to wonder why. Erestor had never proven himself to be any more intelligent, experienced, or hard-working than any other Elf.

What had Elrond seen that Glorfindel had missed?

Glorfindel wanted to know, so he took up a new study.

If Erestor noticed the scrutiny, he did not acknowledge it, but scrutinize Glorfindel did. He watched Erestor eat, converse, and study. Most of all, he watched Erestor study, for it was something the Chief Counselor devoted himself to more than anything. He studied his books, yes, and maps, too. Paper and parchment pored over with expressionless dark eyes and whisper-soft fingers. And Erestor studied art and architecture, standing for hours in a doorway, blocking traffic as he studied the carving on a lintel, or he could be found in a courtyard, devoting an entire afternoon to mapping the curve of a window. Neither was nature out of his notice as he sat in a garden bed examining an anthill or a single leaf – always with eyes so emotionless that his thoughts were impossible to guess. And even when eating or writing or sitting doing nothing, he watched people, studying their hands and faces, the tailoring of their clothes, their tone of voice, choice of words, cut of hair.

Glorfindel watched Erestor watch. Neither took notes.

Then Erestor finally watched Glorfindel back.

Glorfindel marveled at the manner Erestor went about his life, without laughter or anger or friendship. There was never pity or sadness in Erestor’s expression. He had no expression at all, as though Erestor himself was a fixture of Imladris or part of nature, ever moving, never changing, and always unseen.

But Glorfindel saw. He saw dark eyes, pale hands, hair like wire, face like stone, voice like a heartless Elf.

Glorfindel determined such a thing to be impossible and chose to give his love to Erestor.

He never even noticed that his friends warned him not to.

Erestor and Glorfindel were not friends. They lived in the same city, served the same Lord, and watched each other.

Glorfindel told Erestor, “I love you.” There were other words, more words, many words, but those were the only ones that mattered.

Erestor listened with respect and watched him.

Glorfindel waited for an answer.

That night was the first.

It was a dark night. Erestor did not knock. He entered Glorfindel’s room, quiet. He padded soundlessly across the floor to pinch out the candle. He said nothing when he reached for Glorfindel’s throat, drawing a finger along the jaw, down the neck to the first button of his shirt.

Glorfindel opened his mouth. Erestor’s hands lifted away, disappearing into voluminous sleeves.

Glorfindel said nothing, and the hands returned.

So it went, from button to button to bare skin and cool sheets, quickly warmed. Glorfindel fell into the spell, watching the revelation of skin, measuring their bodies against one another, all without words. Words were not permitted and Erestor did not look at Glorfindel’s face.

And yet Erestor’s eyes were busy, studying his own hands and the things they did, studying the reaction of Glorfindel’s skin and flesh.

Glorfindel might have been a map tacked to the wall or a bug on the ground for the interest in Erestor’s unchanging expression.

Erestor moved him, touched him, parted him, entered him, stroked him. Never kissed, never spoke, and his touches were as firm as vapor, his expression as far as the moon.

He said nothing as he dressed and left without a single look or touch, and he said nothing the following morning or that day or the next.

And one night it happened again.

Glorfindel felt as though he burned. He writhed and moaned enough for the two of them, making up for Erestor’s silence and giving into his wordless demands.

In Glorfindel there was love and passion and delight. And confusion. Erestor came to him and came in him, but Erestor barely saw him, barely knew him. Erestor was someone else, somewhere else, and Erestor was still beautiful and dark and pale, made of wire and stone, and heartless. He was heartless.

= = = = =

Glorfindel knows what to expect. He is always surprised.

Glorfindel doesn’t challenge it. It is what it is.

Let Erestor wear his mask, his intense indifference.

Let him be heartless. For Glorfindel has no power here, to alter or end.

It is what it is.

It is heartless.

= = = = =

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written after reading a poem by Margaret Atwood.


End file.
